


DEMONTOWER: part v - Dance of the Palecat

by Rcw99



Series: Things To Hold On To [11]
Category: Night In The Woods (Video Game)
Genre: Demontower, Fic of a video game inside a video game, What happened to the Palecat?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-27 22:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13890363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rcw99/pseuds/Rcw99
Summary: In a newly liberated land,a pale one walks alone.Her quest was over,but her home was destroyedand she did not know what to do next…





	1. Chapter 1

  


### Legend of the Blood Thief

  


  


It had been three generations since the Age of Blood began.

It began in early winter as small raids along the coast; entire villages disappeared under the cover of night, never to be heard from again. Bodies were found lying by the roadside, so drained of blood they were nearly unrecognizable as who they once were. In forests and open fields, there were sightings of monstrous creatures with amorphous, undulating forms, some nearly as large as a wagon.

Now, attacks from supernatural forces were not something unheard of in this land. There were times that a rotting skeleton, still dressed in full armor, came wandering in from out of the bog and set upon unsuspecting peasantry, but this was something else entirely.

By the time anyone figured out what exactly was going on, it was already too late to stop it from getting any worse.

The driving force behind these events was no mere force of nature, but the very embodiment of evil itself.

The Blood Thief.

He was an ancient and terrible necromancer from ages past, his true name long since lost to the pages of history. In a far and distant land somewhere beyond the sea, the Blood Thief had nearly brought a proud and mighty kingdom to its knees before he had been defeated, though it was apparent now that his death was not permanent. Some manner of arcane ritual had brought him back to life, and he had returned with a vengeance.

With his terrible brood of blood beasts, creatures brought into being from the essence of life itself, the Blood Thief set upon this land and its inhabitants, slowly but surely gaining back the power he once had, until he was once again at full strength and began to set his plans in motion. 

It had been two generations since the structure now known only as the Demontower was dredged up from the very ground, carrying with it a legion of demons and undead. Sensing the shift in power, many of the kingdom’s undesirables and malevolent forces were drawn to the Blood Thief, hoping to gain his allegiance and protection.

The first group to find solace in the Blood Thief’s ranks were the Priests of the Cleansing Flame and their leader, the Eternal Pontiff of Ash. Where they had once been a small contingent of crazed fanatics that had been kept in check by the king’s men, they grew in numbers and in power under the necromancer’s care.

The Skeleton King and his army, brought forth by the Blood Thief, found a purpose under his command. They terrorized the countryside, kidnapping any warm bodies they could find taking them back to the Demontower to add to the ever-growing expanse of evil.

It had been then that the kingdom had finally had enough of the Blood Thief’s incessant attacks. The king and his men mounted a full assault on the Blood Thief’s dominion. Every able-bodied person in the land laid siege to the Doom Spire and slaughtered countless demons. For the briefest of moments, things seemed to be going well, but it was only then that the Blood Thief brought out his most fearsome minion yet, the Great Blood Daemon, and quickly laid waste to the good men of the country.

The tide of battle turned, and the king’s army suffered innumerable losses. It was with a heavy heart that the king scrapped the campaign and took what remained of his army back to the capital to lick their wounds. 

Unfortunately, the Blood Thief did not take such an affront on his person lightly. With his army, bolstered by the shambling bodies and ghosts of the very men that had just died, he set upon the nearest city and slaughtered every single living person there with little resistance. Over 30,000 souls were gone in a night and the Blood Thief’s power grew tenfold.

The city was razed to the ground by the Priests of the Cleansing Flame, the land was laid barren, and any indication that a mighty city had once stood there was gone forever. Some say the fires burned for almost a whole year, fueled otherworldly forces.

With that loss, the rest of the west quickly followed suit, and with it any hope of ending this reign of blood and terror. An entire quarter of the kingdom was now under control of malevolent forces and the kingdom had nary a moment to mourn the lives lost. 

Before any sort of counterattack could be mustered, the Blood Thief unleashed a terrible plague of rats that consumed anything in their paths, be it flesh, wood, or even stone. At times, an area could become so infested with rats that they fused together into one singular being. There were numerous reports of peasants entering their basements, only to encounter a large, writhing mass of rats that ate them alive.

Over time, with the kingdom firmly occupied with their newfound rat problem and unable to stop him, the Blood Thief set upon reshaping his territory in his own image. The land around the Demontower became a blasted heath that was slowly warped by the evil magic that permeated the air like fog.

It was declared a no-man's-land. To venture into the forbidden territory would spell a death sentence for all but the bravest of souls, and even then, any unprepared excursion could meet certain doom.

It became known as the Pale. A place no one dared to tread unless they were willing to risk their life or their very sanity.

Without the means to push back against the steadily growing territory, the king’s men tried their best to keep the Blood Thief’s forces at bay. For decades, they held the line and protected the kingdom from complete destruction.

And that was how it had been for the past fifty years. For a while, it seemed as if his advance had slowed.

To the west, all that stood was the dreaded Demontower that loomed over the countryside, seemingly eternal fires burning bright from deep within its bowels. Everything, every town, every village, every city from there to the sea, had been ravaged by the Blood Thief and his minions.

And every few years, they would gain ground against the king’s men. Every few years, another town would be wiped from the annals of history. Every few years, hundreds of people would meet the only fate worse than death. The Pale would grow a little larger.

To many, those were acceptable losses. To the people of the capital, who had never had the misfortune of coming face to face with a demon or a fire priest, at least the Blood Thief was being kept at bay for a little while longer.

But, as time went on, things began to worsen, as they tend to do.

A contingent of bandits, skilled in throwing knives, found a place in the Blood Thief’s ranks, gaining otherworldly powers as a reward. They roamed throughout the land, raping and pillaging, and then taking whoever survived back to the Demontower. Worst of all was their leader, who seemed to be more monster than man at times, instantly recognizable for the distinctive crown of horns he wore atop his head.

And then came the very worst news of all.

There was a reason the Blood Thief had been so lax in his attacks in the past years. There was a reason he hadn’t gained any significant ground for quite some time.

It was because he had an even loftier goal than mere control over the mortal realm. As he finally accumulated enough power, he voyaged into the holy aether and brought down the gods themselves. He shackled them at the very top of the Demontower and drained them of their essence, the very lifeblood of the universe itself.

It was the end of times. No force in heaven or earth could hope to stop the Blood Thief. Tollmetron, the ringing bell at the world’s end, was striking its final tolls. All that anyone could do was wait for it all to be over.

And then, just when the world seemed hopeless and there was little doubt that the age of blood would end with the Blood Thief’s total dominion over heaven and earth, the Demontower grew quiet and the rivers of blood that spilled from its top dried up. 

The raids on nearby towns and villages stopped. Nights were no longer filled with the howls of blood beasts chasing their prey. Reports of fire priests burning the peasantry alive ceased. Even the seemingly endless supply of rats ground to a halt.

A few valiant adventurers set forth to investigate and managed to come back unscathed, bringing back news that nearly every foul monster had been slain. The vast swath of territory that had once been host to all manner of ghosts, skeletons, and demons had become empty. 

It was like something out of a dream.

The age of blood was seemingly over.

At the king’s insistence, a small contingent of warriors was rounded up to be sent into the Pale to investigate what exactly had befallen the Demontower and its malevolent lord. They trekked through the swamps of blood that had been created where once was lush farmland, they forged their way through the mountains choked thick with mind-bending fog, and traversed the forest with shadows so deep and dark you could fall into one and never come out.

And at the end of it all, was the dreaded Demontower that seemed to stretch up infinitely into the heavens. 

Their Climb up the tower was met with no resistance. Every foul blood beast had been slain, the pestilence of rats had been curbed, and the Priests of the Cleansing Flame were nothing more than charred remains. The Skeleton King, the Eternal Pontiff of Ash, and the even the Great Blood Daemon were all similarly slaughtered.

At the very top, they found a great pool of blood, marking the very spot the Blood Thief imprisoned the gods and consumed their being. They found the empty husks of countless individuals, drained completely of their lifeforce, mouths still wide open in screams of agony.

And beyond that, they discovered the body of the Blood Thief himself, cut cleanly through the middle.

He was well and truly dead.

There, they encountered the only living soul they had seen since they first set forth. He was a strange man in a cloak, who firmly insisted he was a merchant, despite having no wares to trade, nor any reason to be trading in such a deadly area.

He told them of the events that he had witnessed, of the being known only as the Palecat and the trail of destruction she had carved with naught but her blade.

The legend of the Palecat was one well known throughout the kingdom. No one knew who she was or where she had come from, but they knew she was a master of the sword and was in possession of powers beyond mortal comprehension.

Some say she rose from the ashes of a city burned to the ground by the fire priests, imbued with the energy of all those that had been burnt, a desire for vengeance instilled deep in her being.

Others believed that she was a champion of the gods, sent down from the heavens with divine purpose to end the Age of Blood and restore peace and balance to the land.

And there were those that thought she was no more than a slavering beast herself, an experiment gone wrong, abandoned by the Blood Thief, and wanted nothing more than revenge on her former master.

There were even a few that believed she was no more than a myth, invented by the Blood Thief himself so as to instill a sense of hope in those he would soon kill.

However, the one thing everyone agreed on was that of her quest, and the singular drive she possessed to slaughter the Blood Thief and every minion under his control.

It was one day she appeared from out of nowhere, her sword at the ready, and neatly disposed of a group of roving skeletons that were attacking a village. When all was said and done, and the villagers were saved, she left without saying a word and vanished into the nearby forest.

The next time she was sighted was in a slightly larger town besieged by a pack of ghosts and some armored skeletons. She came charging into the town and attacked the demons with a ferocity few could hope to match. With seemingly more experience under her belt, and the reveal of supernatural powers, she dispatched her enemies with ease and once more saved the day.

From then on, the legend of the Palecat grew. 

For a period of less than a year, she wandered through the countryside, helping those in need and gathering the strength she required to take on the infamous necromancer and his Demontower. 

During that short time, she amassed a reputation as a silent guardian of the people. She never asked for thanks or for any reward. She simply appeared from out the wilds to kill any monsters, demons, or general evil-doers that were in her way, only to disappear again, rarely visiting the same place twice.

She was formidable to be sure, a force to be reckoned with, and she struck fear into the hearts of the wicked, provided they had any hearts to strike fear into. But beneath that gruff exterior, she had a kind and gentle personality, and would often provide help to anyone in need, often fetching lost items or helping with menial problems. To those that had met her, she was a savior, a champion.

So when word that she had been successful in slaying the Blood Thief and his minions spread throughout the land, there was much rejoicing. In less than a year, this singular woman had done what many had thought impossible. Most had thought the Blood Thief too powerful to ever be defeated, but if anyone could, it would be the Palecat.

The king wanted to invite her to the capital to thank her personally and shower her in honorifics, influential nobles wanted to ask for her hand in marriage, and there was talk of even naming a holiday after her.

But the Palecat was nowhere to be found. Following the completion of her quest, she vanished from the face of this earth and no one had seen her since. And despite repeated attempts to discover her whereabouts, she remained elusive.

Many thought that, with her quest completed, she returned to the heavens from whence she came, or that she was killed by the Blood Thief in a final act of retaliation, or had crawled off somewhere to die, or whatever other manner of death they could conjure up. There were just as many rumors and theories of her disappearance as there were about her origins.

However, the simple truth was that she did not want to be found. The Palecat was a lonely soul and she did not do what she did for fame or glory or money. She did it because it was the right thing to do. She did it because she herself had sustained losses at the hands of the Blood Thief and his minions. She did it because there was no one else who could.

But that was all in the past now.

She had won.

She had confronted the Blood Thief and killed him once and for all.

And now, all of a sudden, that singular thing that had been driving her for so long was gone and she didn’t know what to do next.

It wasn’t something she had ever given thought to before. What happens after the day is saved? She had no home to return to, no family to reconnect with, and she had no want to marry a rich husband and live in a mansion for the rest of her days.

Her body was beaten and battered, and her soul had been broken too many times to count. There was a permanent shake in her sword hand that refused to go away and would probably be with her to her dying day and there were still times she was unable to sleep through the night without waking up from some terrible nightmare of the hell she had gone through.

But most of all, she was tired.

She was so very tired.

It consumed her like a fire.

She could feel it in her veins.

Every step she took was plodding and lethargic.

Every swing of her sword was harder than the last.

Every time she used magic left her feeling drained and empty.

This was the lasting reminder of the Blood Thief; a terrible curse lain upon her, his final mark left in this world. Her body was cursed, though it was that very curse that ultimately led to the Blood Thief’s undoing. It was something she would have to carry until her end of days, whenever that may be.

And it is there that this story truly begins...

  


  



	2. Chapter 2

  


### 

A Life Beyond the Pale

  


  


Under a moonlit sky, a lone wooden building sat at a crossroads, nestled back in a bank of trees, barely visible in the night if not for the gentle glow of light coming from within.

It was the Inn, for that was the only name it had. It had no identifying signage and anyone who may have once known the original name had been lost to the ages. Yet, such a simple name was all it needed, for it was the only building of its ilk for fifty miles in any direction.

The only other structure in the surrounding area was a crooked signpost, nearly rotted through with age, that pointed the way towards only three locations. To the north was the gleaming capital, to the east was a local town of no consequence, and to the south, a small hamlet of no more than twenty people.

Times past, there was once a wondrous city not far to the west that had attracted many a visitor from neighboring kingdoms and some even from lands beyond, but it was no longer. 

For the only thing that stood in that direction was the Pale and the now empty Demontower, whose fires still burned bright from deep within its bowels. It loomed over the countryside, an eternal reminder of the horror that had consumed the land for so long.

But it had been months since the Demontower grew quiet. Slowly but surely, life returned to what it had once been. No longer did people live in fear of skeleton armies or rat plagues, or even the Priests of Eternal Flame.

Peace had been restored.

And with it came a renewed interest in the lands once in control of the Blood Thief. In the intervening months since his death, troves of plucky, pioneering homesteaders traveled into the west, eager to tame the Pale and bring it under man’s domain.

It was a hard task. The Pale was so saturated with blood and lingering magic that many died before any significant progress could be made. Once, an entire camp completely disappeared in a cloud of otherworldly fog.

But that did nothing to deter the settlers from coming. Most nights, the Inn was packed full of all sorts of characters, spending one final night in safety before venturing out into the Pale. Anyone traveling toward the Pale would have to stay there at some point.

This particular night was no different. A new wave of settlers had come in and were drinking the night away in preparation for the next day. All sorts of different characters would spend the night, only to leave the next morning, few ever being seen again. The only permanent fixtures in the Inn were the middle-aged couple that ran the place and a young, unassuming woman who had been staying there going on three months.

Now, this woman was a bit of a conundrum for the owners. She had appeared out of nowhere one night, disheveled and in tremendous pain, desperate for a warm, safe place to lay her head. She was wrapped in a green cape, worn and tattered by many years of use, and a simple red hat was set jauntily at the front of her head, seemingly held in place by sheer will alone, even as weak as she was.

And she had been there ever since. The owners did not ask any questions about where she was from or why she was there, and the woman did not offer up any answers. She had a seemingly endless supply of coin to fund her stay there, and that was all that mattered to them. They knew not even her name.

All they knew of the woman was what they could observe. She woke up every morning, long before the sun rose and scampered off to do who knew what for the remainder of the day, only returning once night had fallen to eat and sleep.

She carried herself with the air of someone of importance, but seemed nothing of the sort. Her clothes were never properly cared for, and she constantly fluctuated between a state of pure exhaustion and an agitated restlessness that seemed to consume her.

She never spoke to anyone, not even the owners themselves. Even when their other patrons would strike up a conversation, she remained silent and seemingly indifferent to anything going on around her. If a scuffle was to break out, usually from one too many drinks, she would slink away and avoid any sort of confrontation. 

They had an idea of who this woman was, of course. She made no effort to disguise herself or pretend to be anyone she was not. 

She was the Palecat.

Even if her appearance and personality didn’t match up with the legendary hero, there was one distinction that made it obvious exactly who she was. Because, burned into the woman’s forehead, barely covered up by her hat, was a distinctive cross. The mark of the Palecat. There was no question that it was she who was living at the Inn.

But she paid for their silence, and they were not ones to turn down offered coin.

And so she wiled away the days in anonymity. For the passerbys, she was of no interest, and anyone who looked too close at her was often too drunk to remember anything the next day. No one knew who she was, and if anyone was to look at her, she looked content with life.

Palecat sat at one of the tables inside the Inn, stuffed back in the corner of the room. She blinked wearily and stared down at the bowl of stew that was her dinner. It was the same thing she had eaten every night since she first arrived at the Inn. It was also the only thing on the menu, so she couldn’t choose to be picky. It was far better than roasted squirrel.

The only problem was that she wasn’t hungry. Not in that way at least. Hunger gnawed at her insides, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat anything. 

It didn’t help that the stew was cold either. It was late. Sometime past midnight. All of the other patrons at the Inn had already stumbled off to bed, as had the owners of the place. She was alone in the main dining hall, the room lit only by a single candle and the light of the moon outside.

She heaved a deep sigh and pushed the bowl away from her, leaning her elbows on the table. She knew she wouldn’t get around to eating anything that night, however much she knew she should. She hadn’t eaten any food in the past three days, though it wasn’t like that mattered anyway. 

Not tonight, she decided.

Maybe tomorrow.

Without a sound, Palecat stood up from her seat, wrapping her cloak tight around her body. It was hot and muggy outside, as it usually was around this time of year, but Palecat felt a chill run up her spine nonetheless. There was a coldness only she felt.

She blew the candle out, letting the darkness engulf her, and quickly retreated to the familiarity of her room. It was nothing special, just the same as most of the other rooms at the Inn, but it was hers and she felt safe within it, even though she was no more safe there than anywhere else. 

Once inside, she quickly stripped out of her clothes and laid them neatly in a stack beside her bed, her hat lying on top. The layer of chainmail she wore was draped over the back of a chair. Her sword and its scabbard were placed within arm’s reach, just in case.

She stood in the middle of the room for a moment, breathing deeply. She closed her eyes.

_Breathe in._

_And out._

_In._

_And out._

_In._

_Out._

She opened her eyes again and slid into the bed, covering herself with the collection of blankets she had amassed during her stay there. She needed to stay warm.

In the room next door she could hear a man snoring. That was the only downside of this establishment. The walls were much too thin. Many a time, there was constant noise all throughout the night.

Not that it mattered much, of course.

She didn’t sleep anymore anyway.

She hadn’t for a long time now.

The silence just made it easier to make it through the night.

  


~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

  


The next night was much of the same.

Lots of people.

Lots of noise.

Lots of drinking.

Palecat was sitting at her usual sequestered table, watching the mass of people with veiled interest.

There was traveling bard serenading them with music, a group of rowdy men playing some sort of card game, and a smattering of people simply having a good time.

So, of course, something had to happen.

The door slammed open and in walked a group of shifty-looking men. Immediately, alarm bells were going off in Palecat’s head. They had all the signs of trouble, from the collection of knives she could clearly see strapped to their bodies, to the nasty scars running across their face and arms, to the way they shoved some poor women to the ground right after they came in.

And then, of course, one of the men stabbed that same woman right in the stomach, causing the entire Inn to grow quiet. The crowd moved back from the men, shouts of alarm cutting through the previous laidback atmosphere.

Yes, they were definitely trouble. 

One of the men, who Palecat could only presume was the leader, took a step forward, grinning madly. “Alrighty now!” he said, his voice booming, “I’m gonna make this real simple-like, yeah? We are gonna be takin’ all of youse things. If any of youse fight back, we’ll kill ya, skin ya like a pig, and whatever else my boys are in the mood for, ya hear?”

He drew a long, black knife and stepped over the woman that had been stabbed earlier. He smiled even wider and pressed the knife edge into her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. “That sure is a nice necklace you have on there, lassie.” And with a swish of his wrist, he cut said necklace right off her neck and threw it behind his shoulder at one of his men. “Thank youse for your contribution.”

And then he slit her throat.

“Now,” he said, wiping the blade off on his pants as he stood back up, “is any one of youse poor fools feelin’ foolish enough to play the hero? ‘Cause I’ve sure been itchin’ to kill all day today and I’d like to have an excuse ‘fore I kill anotha one of youse.”

Palecat grit her teeth and went to draw her sword, cursing that she was at the back of the room. The situation was rapidly spiraling out of control and she needed to go help. Unfortunately, the entire crowd was blocking her and she had to shove her way to the front.

Before she could get there though, someone else stepped forward, intent on trying to save the day. He was a large, burly man, who, given the right set of circumstances, could most certainly take on the group of bandits.

But this was not the right set of circumstances. It was quite possibly the worst.

The man was dead before Palecat made it through the crowd. She was a couple of seconds too slow. One moment, the man was alive, and the next there was a dagger sticking out of his forehead and he was slumped on the floor.

It was then that people started to scream. The fear that had kept them in silence for so long finally broke and pandemonium erupted. The crowd surged for the exit, but the bandits began to grab whoever they could get their hands on and killed them without remorse. 

Palecat ignored all of that. None of that mattered at the moment. The only thing that did was ending this before any more lives were lost.

She stood still, sword at the ready, and stared defiantly up at the leader, _daring_ him to make a move.

He chuckled, not at all intimidated. “And what’re you, little lady? I gotta say, ya got some moxie on you. Don’t think I’ve ever—”

It all happened in a blink of an eye.

There was a flash of light and the distinctive sound of metal cutting deep into flesh and bone.

One moment, Palecat was several feet away, and the next she was behind him.

His right arm fell to the floor, cut clean through at the shoulder.

The man recoiled in shock, taking a moment to register what happened. A wail of pain escaped his lips and he clutched uselessly at the stump where his arm had just been. 

His minions stared in amazement, and then before they could react, Palecat rushed forward and ran them clean through, killing them instantly.

She turned back around to face the leader, and immediately had to dodge out of the way as he threw a punch at her. He had recovered from the shock and was angry now. The adrenaline was keeping him going.

But Palecat wasn’t concerned. With one more swing of her sword, she ended his life and saved the day once again.

Stepping back from the body, she wiped the blood off her sword on the hem of her cape and slid it back into its scabbard. The heady scent of blood and death hung in the air, filling her mind with twisted thoughts. She grimaced and turned away, clenching her eyes shut.

No.

She couldn’t.

It wasn’t right.

Especially not now.

Not now.

Never again.

But still, the scent was there, tantalizing her.

Her hunger gnawed at her insides, begging to be satiated.

And she didn’t trust herself to be strong enough to refuse. Not anymore.

It was then that the people in the Inn started to cheer, thanking her for saving them. One of them recognized her and they all rushed her, crowding her, all clamoring to meet the famous and long-lost Palecat.

It was too much.

It was much too much.

She could feel their lifeforce beating stronger than ever before, emanating from their bodies in powerful waves.

It would be so easy to just give in, she knew.

So, so easy.

She was so hungry.

And they were all so full of blood.

Palecat opened her eyes and unleashed what little bit of magic she had remaining, simultaneously thrusting the people nearest her to the ground and dashing forward to the door. She had to leave before she did anything drastic.

Before anybody could react to her sudden outburst, or think to chase after her, she wrenched open the door and hurried out of the inn, slamming the door behind her, hoping to the gods that no one would follow her.

As she stepped out of the building, the mask of stoicism she had been wearing was replaced by a grimace. With as much will as she could muster, she ran out to the forest’s edge, pushing through the shake that started up in her limbs. The only thoughts she had at that moment was to get as far away as possible.

She collapsed against the far side of a tree, her breath coming in short gasps. This was bad, she knew. The worst it had ever been. She hadn’t truly eaten in so long, and the opportunity to feast back there had been so strong. There was so much blood, so many virile, powerful souls, just ripe for the taking.

Even now, the sickness in her was commanding her to go back and fulfill her desires, to grow stronger again, to live. The basest of instincts inside were yelling to keep going and to not just wither and die like she had been wanting to.

The temptation was so strong.

Unbidden, flashes of the terrible things she had done to stay alive burst into her mind, reminding her of just how powerful she had once been and just how _good_ it had felt.

She did not consider herself a hero, not in the traditional sense. A hero was something good and bright and pure, and she was none of those things. Not anymore.

When she first woke up in the ashes of her home, surrounded by the charred husks of her husband and children, there were only two thoughts in her mind.

_Why did she survive, out of so many others?_

_And how could she get revenge on the Blood Thief for destroying everything she held dear?_

The answers to those questions seemed like destiny. Whatever it was that spared her life imbued her with special powers, magic the likes of which she had never seen before, and made her stronger and faster than she ever could have dreamed. She didn’t even have to eat or drink anymore.

If there was anyone alive that could slaughter the Blood Thief once and for all, it would be her, she was sure of it.

So that was what she set out to do.

After months of coming to terms with her new powers and training in secret, she became the Palecat. She never chose the name, but it stuck with her throughout her adventures. She rather liked her actual name, but that was beside the fact.

When she started out killing skeletons and ghosts, she didn’t quite understand why they made her stronger, but she didn’t really care. They were terrible, horrid creatures, and their deaths saved lives and made her powerful enough to take on all the other demons and enemies she went on to face.

She could still remember that rush she felt when she first killed that one giant spider, her first truly massive foe. The flood of energy unleashed from its death had been unlike anything she had felt before. It had been intoxicating, and that was when it truly began.

And all through her journey, through the Floodlands of Blood, the Forests of Shadows, and every other wretched place she fought through, she killed and killed and killed and got stronger. More skeletons, more ghosts, until those didn’t quite fill her up anymore and she had to fight the Priests of the Eternal Flame and the Blood Demons just to feel full.

It was only when she faced the Blood Thief for the first time that she truly understood what she was, what he had accidentally made her into.

She was undead, just like all the other creatures she had killed.

She knew no mortal hunger, for blood and souls were the only things that sustained her.

In her was the lifeforce of hundreds of souls. Souls she willingly consumed to keep herself alive, to heal her injuries, or just to gain more strength. Every enemy she slew, every monster she killed, every beast she slaughtered during her quest was absorbed into her very being.

That was her curse. 

And when the Blood Thief soundly defeated her and left her for dead, she had ended up doing the unthinkable.

In the small castle where she found him were hundreds of large urns scattered throughout the building. Without even having to break one, she knew exactly what was contained inside. She could feel it, pulsing out, calling to her, and at the singular moment of weakness, she was powerless to stop herself from answering.

For inside each urn was a pure, untainted human soul, ripped fresh from the bodies of the Blood Thief’s victims.

She needed them. They made her stronger. Healed her. They were the only things in that moment that could help her.

That was what she told herself when she broke one of those urns and willingly consumed her first human soul. 

And that was what she told herself when she did it again.

And again.

And the countless times after that.

And all the times she did so while on her Climb up the Demontower.

She was no better than the Blood Thief himself, in the end. 

The only difference between them was that she didn’t want this. She didn’t want to consume any more blood. She didn’t want to kill anymore. Now that she had slaughtered the Blood Thief and enacted her revenge, she had no more reason to consume blood.

Now that it was all over, she didn’t know what to do.

She had no purpose any longer.

No drive.

The only thing left for her to do was to be with her family again.

That was why she was where she was now. She had been purposefully starving herself of any more blood for months and waiting until she wasted away, so that she could finally be at peace and the last remnant of Blood Magic would be gone from this land.

For that reason, she had been terrified of the bodies back in the Inn. She had grown addicted to the blood, she knew. She could feel it. The temptation was too strong, and if she gave in, even the smallest drop had the potential to prolong her life even longer.

So she sat there, underneath that tree on the edge of the forest right beside the Inn, for what felt like hours, until she finally got her desires back under control.

She knew she couldn’t return to the Inn again. People knew she was there. Word would spread. More would certainly come, and eventually, she wouldn’t be able to control herself.

From under the hem of her shirt, she pulled out a small, blackened locket. Inside used to be etchings of her husband and children, but it had been destroyed in the same fire that consumed her village and her life.

She had looked at the locket a lot since the fire, desperately remembering her family, trying to hold on to exactly why she was doing all she was.

And for the first time since all this began, Palecat spoke. Her voice was hoarse and raspy from disuse, but it still sounded just as it used to. “I miss you all so much…” She gently stroked the locket and then tucked it back into her shirt.

She knew not where she would end up next, but she knew she couldn’t stay around here any longer. With a sigh, she heaved herself up from the ground and cast one final glance at the Inn. It hadn’t been much, but it was the first place she had been able to call home since hers burned.

With that, she turned and made for the main road, making sure to—

  


  


  


  


  


“What’cha doing, Cap’n?”

Angus glanced up from his computer screen at Gregg. He hadn’t even heard him come home. “Hey,” he said, smiling. He got up from the computer desk and met Gregg at the door to their bedroom, kissing him gently.

“I was just doing some writing.” They both walked out into the living room, moving around the stacks of cardboard moving boxes as they went. They were getting ready to finally move and Angus had spent the entire day packing. “How was work?”

“Ugh! Boring!” Gregg collapsed down onto the couch. “These extra hours are killing me! And I had to spend a whole ‘nother day training that Danny guy to replace me! I hate having to do stuff at work!”

Angus had gone on to the kitchen and was preparing a sandwich for Gregg. “Well, you’ve had it lucky at the Snack Falcon the past couple of years. Most jobs don’t let you take off early all the time. It’s good preparation for whatever jobs we find in Bright Harbor.”

“I know…” Gregg turned on the TV as Angus came back in with his food. “And I know we need the extra money, so I’m not really complaining. I just really want to be done with the place already. Christine can go to hell.” With that, he bit into the sandwich, rapidly devouring his meal and Angus began flipping through the channels for something they felt like watching.

They eventually settled on some Garbo and Malloy, though neither of them were really interested in watching. They were both tired. 

After a few minutes of silence, Gregg spoke up again. “Soo… What were you writing? Your Demontower story again? How’s that going?”

“Good. I’m writing the second chapter right now. I’ve got some pretty interesting things planned next.”

“Cool! If you need a second pair of eyes, you know where to look.” Gregg tossed the now empty paper plate down on the side table.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two of them lapsed back into silence, each of them simply enjoying the other’s company. They didn’t feel the need to fill the quiet with talking at the moment. For all his energetic nature, Gregg always calmed down significantly when alone with Angus. He’d learned to appreciate the smaller moments.

Angus sighed and wrapped an arm around Gregg’s shoulder, pulling him in closer. “Just another week and a half, Bug. And then we’ll be out of here.”

“I know. Hard to believe, huh? I’m gonna miss Possum Springs.”

“I won’t” Angus smiled. “I’ll miss our friends, but I won’t miss this town. There’s a lot of good memories here, but I think we’ll make even better ones in Bright Harbor.”

Gregg nestled into Angus’ side, letting loose a yawn before speaking. “Anytime with you is a good memory, Cap’n.”

And Angus couldn’t agree more.

  



End file.
